Sketch of a Murder

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

An owl hooted somewhere close by as Kelly struggled to consciousness. I could tell from the sudden tension in his body when he was aware enough to realize he was blindfolded. I could imagine the tempo of his heart accelerating.

Seated on a folding, canvas camp chair, I watched as he tried to move his arms. What thoughts went through his mind as he quickly realized his arms were stretched above his head and anchored to something immovable?

It was the bite of the handcuffs, I am convinced, that brought him to full awareness. Handcuffs tight against his ankles. Handcuffs clamped around his wrists. His mind must've dropped into sheer terror for he flailed mightily against his restraints.

"Take some deep breaths, Kelly. Calm down." I stood and walked over to the rough wood table that had been left behind by a previous occupant. Its legs scratched across the uneven plank floor as I dragged it closer to him. From a box by the door I retrieved an ugly green lantern. Once placed, the lantern sat solidly in the middle of the wobbly table. The match struck against the matchbox side flared briefly before I touched it to the kerosene lantern's wick. Purchased at an Army-Navy Surplus store in Woodinville, it resembled thousands of others. Untraceable. The wick caught and a warm circle of yellow light pushed at the stygian darkness. A darkness never found in a city.

He continued trying to pull himself together, the struggle going on for several minutes. Had to admire the man. He sucked air in through his nostrils and then slowly blew it out through his mouth. I could see a hitch in the rhythm of his breathing whenever he instinctively attempted to pull his legs together. Each time he tried to protect that vulnerable, exposed area, his breathing turned into shallow, irregular pants.

At last he found enough breath to ask the question that had to be foremost in his mind. "Who are you? Why have you kidnapped me?"

With false injury in my voice, I said, "I'm devastated! You don't recognize a colleague."

"Recognize you? How would I do that? If you haven't noticed, I am blindfolded. All you are to me is a disembodied voice and a kidnapper."

The boy must be really frightened to give up all pretensions to polite, civilized behavior. However, it is nice he isn't a complete wilting rose, even though he is, as Father would say, light in the loafers.

"Give it time, Kelly. You'll place me." I resumed my seat close to the bed.

"If you're so sure I'll recognize you, why the blindfold?"

I didn't answer. Sat still as a hawk watching its prey. Minutes stretched dry fingers to claw at my prisoner.

"Hey, you still here?" A tremble in his voice caused his words to quiver ever so slightly.

Still I said nothing, made no moves to alert him to my continued presence.

"Hey, asshole, say something." He waited and then muttered, "Damn asshole must've left."

The silence must have been stretching his nerves as thin as an old pair of socks. After a few more minutes I spoke. "No, the damn asshole hasn't left."

"Oh, I get it. The silent treatment. All part of your sicko games." His words burned the air, hot as the blaze of a welder's torch.

They ignited The Rage. It whipped through me like a forest fire under a stiff wind. I leaned close to his ear. I whispered, afraid anything louder would shatter the chains binding The Rage. "Not a sick game. Justice." He had to feel the moisture of my breath on the rim of his ear. Had to know by the absence of my breath when I moved away again.

"Justice!" He fairly shouted. "I haven't done anything!"

I crossed my legs, clasped my hands, and looped them around my knee. "Don't worry. I never let a prisoner go to his execution without him understanding his crimes."